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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561880">Time and Other Necessities</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon'>cilceon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Looking From Outside [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aromantic Sasha James, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neighbors, Past Abuse, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:33:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cilceon/pseuds/cilceon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>People aren't meant to exist alone and sometimes the people in your life move in due to little more than coincidence. Tim falls in love like a Jane Austen character and he hates it. He's afraid of it, but sometimes you need someone's arm to be vases that your tears can be poured into. Sometimes you need to talk and you need to grow and maybe these two people can be that for each other.<br/>Do you remember when Tim's va &amp; Alex said "Yeah Tim wouldn't have spiraled liek that if he wasn't alone?" I'm fixing that...sort of</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, tim stoker/alison hart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Looking From Outside [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014606</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Golden Pothos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hey gang! I'm reworking this story so hang on tight as I rewrite it to read better! So here's the better chapter one, two should be up soon xx<br/>thanks for sticking with it<br/>-lyss</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Cassandra Clare -</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was like beginning of rain. Nothing more than a soft tender movement, hardly noticeable if not being directly acknowledged. A murmur of a question – an anticipated shiver of an answer freely given.</p><p>The carefully placed presses of warm fingers slow danced along the length of Tim's arm. Well cared for nails traced the curve of his bone, trailing across muscle and just the right fashion to triggered goosebumps across his skin. The warmth of the hand was a whisper of a promise of care and of love.</p><p>The nails themselves were gentle, as if he were some fragile trinket that needed protecting. Thumb grazing across the pulse inside of his elbow and resting there with small swirling motions – blanketing him in security.</p><p>“Nothing will harm you my dear,” it said, “I am right by your side.”</p><p>Then, the first notes of a music box started playing somewhere far off.</p><p>A jab of pain went over the vein of Tim's arm where the nails were suddenly catching his skin. The rounded curve becoming jagged. The hand around his forearm morphing into another. It was colder as it followed the same path and curved up his body, sharper – nearly cynical.</p><p>Two hands became three. Three became four. What was once a sweet murmur of a touch more often to an enraged shout. The pressing of adoring fingertips turned into a clawing, greedy shard of glass.</p><p>They pulled at him – stretching him out, like he was a rag doll in a game of tug of war fought against children or ravage dogs.</p><p>There were more hands now, pressing up the meat of his calves as this unwanted touch crooned its way into Tim's skin. The fingers felt like worms borrowing into him. The movement writhing inside of him regardless of how much he thrashed.</p><p>Tim fought to break the barrier of his skin. To tear the intruders out, but the claws held him down. Tearing. Peeling. Bloody and beautiful like that first touch had promised it would be.</p><p>He wanted to look away, to turn the red to darkness. But the nails clawed into Tim’s scalp, pulling his hair nearly out of him. Others moved to his eyelids and pried them open. Forcing him to watch the massacre of hands leech into him until he could not tell where Tim started, and the hands began–</p><p>A knocking woke him. He sat up with such a speed that it made him dizzy.</p><p>He took stock of the room around him. The same crumpled sheets and blanket as always were discarded to the floor. A full laundry basket in the corner, a crooked painting on the wall above his dresser. It was just his room.</p><p>Tim was in his room. Alone. The only hands in sight were his own. He looked at his hands slowly – shaking. Just his skin was there, no red… no blood. Just Tim.</p><p>The knock sounded again.</p><p>Had it not sounded like the beginning of a small tune; he wouldn't have given it a second thought. Tim simply would have snatched his blanket from the floor and cocooned around himself in a vain attempt of comfort. It was the first time in recent memory that someone had knocked on his door, especially whatever morning hour it may have been, most mail carriers just left the packages on his door mat and food delivery boys had to buzz up.</p><p>So, against his better judgment – Tim put both of his feet on the floor and shifted with a pop of spine. He then shuffled towards his front door, bare feet complaining against the cold of the hardwood below him.</p><p>In hindsight he should have taken his blanket to wrap around his shoulders, or at the very least picked up a shirt out of the hamper to put over himself. Tim had assumed his heater fixed itself, but if his visible breath in front of him was in indicator – that was far from the truth. The November morning did not seem to care about that little fact however, in the cold seeped into the walls of his flat.</p><p>Tim flipped the chain off of his door and opened it with a complaint Creek the cold of the hallway rushing into him – sending a shiver up his spine.</p><p>there was a woman in front of him, black hair in a disheveled bun stab through with that look like an old paintbrush. The goal that turned the skin of her earlobes around two silver piercings a strawberry pink and – despite the chill, she was in ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.</p><p>“Something I can help you with?” The remnants of sleep in Tim's throw it made his voice gruffer than he would have preferred. He sounded almost annoyed he could tell from the shift in her posture, that was exactly how she took it.</p><p>“Sorry. It's past ten so I thought you'd be awake.” The tone of her voice attempting to match his accidental hostility despite the fact that she was fidgeting slightly pointer finger picking at the corner of her thumbnail.</p><p>Oh god, she was American. “Fair point.” Tim softened his voice with a clearing of his throat.</p><p>“I'm moving in next door.” she hitched a thumb over her shoulder, “I got a few plants that need sunlight and one of them – well, she has a habit of climbing on things. I wanted to put her on the balcony.”</p><p>“Okay?” His brain was too slow in his groggy state to piece together what question she was asking.</p><p>The woman seemed to pick up on that and her shoulders slumped slightly, “Eventually it might crawl to your side of the balcony are you cool with that?” she was trying very hard to look anywhere but directly at him, it took a few beats before Tim realized it was most likely because he was only wearing sweatpants and suddenly he became very self-conscious.</p><p>“Yeah it's <em>cool</em>.” Tim said ‘cool’ in his own, sad attempt of her accent and she scowled at him – clearly not amused.</p><p>“I uh, will let you get back to whatever it was you were doing.” She nodded curtly, before beginning to turn around.</p><p>“Wait hold on.” He nearly put his hand out to stop her but settled for putting it on the doorframe. “Did you say it was ten?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Oi Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I'm late for work.”</p><p>“Well, then good thing I woke you up.” She smiled at him, a smile that had an air of something he couldn't quite place. Victory? The accent thing wasn’t <em>that </em>bad.</p><p>“You have a good day.” She said, before turning into the door next to his own.</p><p>“Tim, by the way.” He called out.</p><p>“Alison.” She was still smiling when she looked over her shoulder then shut the door, leaving him to scurry for his phone to shoot Martin a text saying he was going to be late, though he was already late by an hour at this point.</p><p>The events that happened next were all in quick succession. Tim's phone being thrown onto his bed, sweats getting kicked off then replaced with jeans. A scramble for a shirt that wasn't crumpled then two matching shoes.</p><p>In the time it took Tim to get dressed, Martin had responded to his “hey sorry mate gonna be a little late” with “Hope everything’s okay! Let me know when you’re near” a minute later, “I’ll let Jon know” and finally “Sasha wants coffee for compensation for covering you.”</p><p>Coffee was easy. He could get her a coffee. There was a shop next to some florist place on the way to the Institute that he could swing by. Tim had Sasha's order memorized anyways.</p><p>He was lucky enough to be about a fifteen-minute walk from the archive. Tim sent Martin another message when he locked his door to which his friend quickly responded with “Great! I'll let Jon know” because of course he <em>had </em>to go let Jon know.</p><p>The door to 5 A, now Alison’s door, was propped open with a potted plant that was as tall as his leg, there was no sight of her in the stairwell. The front of the building was a different story. She looked to be in deep conversation with the driver of a van who was in an old military style jacket, stress pulled at her features.</p><p>Now, Timothy Stoker had never been one to eavesdrop. But the man seemed to be a Scottish friend of hers and he had an emergency he needed to get to, which Alison assured him, that it was fine and that he didn't need to worry.</p><p>Even from this distance he could tell that she was lying, though she was trying quite hard to hide it.</p><p>As he stepped fully out of the front door and down the steps of the building, she spared him a glance with the short wave before returning her attention to the other man. “Really, it's no problem at all, I appreciate you driving all the way down here from Glasgow with me. You didn’t need to and-”</p><p>“And miss spending time with my favourite wee painter? Never.”</p><p>She giggled and slapped him on the arm, playfully. “Dominic, I am almost the same height as you.”</p><p>Context clues would point to her being from Scotland, but she had an American accent, and she was a painter? An American painter from Glasgow. Got it. That made total sense.</p><p>He rounded the corner of the street, leaving earshot of their conversation. By the looks of it, they seemed to be moving the contents of the van on to the side of the road before this Dominic fellow had to go on his way.</p><p>The rest of the way to the Institute carried it on the way it normally did; very little happened and he stepped in a puddle.</p><p>It had been raining on and off for the last few days, so Tim was glad it wasn't right now since in his hurry, he left his umbrella in the flat. He got Sasha her coffee and continued on his way.</p><p>“Honestly, Tim, you live fifteen minutes away. You think you'd be here on time more often.”</p><p>“Good morning to you too, Sasha.” He sat coffee down on her desk with a smile, “How’s boss and company doing?”</p><p>“Company is stressed because they thought you got hit by a lorry or something.” Martin mumbled from his desk across from Tim’s.</p><p>He handed back an apologetic look as he sat down, “Sorry ‘bout that. I overslept.”</p><p>“Again.” Sasha called out as she went around the room, her movement reminded him of a honeybee.</p><p>“Yes, again.” It wasn’t like he was late often – just more so than his coworkers were, not that he actually ever got in trouble for it.</p><p>“Did you happen to get the missing person’s info for the Watts case?” Martin addressed Sasha, forgetting Tim momentarily.</p><p>“Hold on a sec, I’ll share the file with you.” She set something down on top of a filing cabinet and buzzed towards her desk.</p><p>Tim settled into his spot and flipped his computer on. And just like that, his work day started. A good half of the work was just a very specific sequence of google searches – not that he really minded.</p><p>At the end of the day, Sasha had gotten her work done early, leaving Martin and Tim to their own devices. As she left, she muttered something about a yoga class.</p><p>“Hey, Tim?”</p><p>“Hey, Marto?”</p><p>“How much do you know about… dogs.”</p><p>“I mean,” Tim set down the stack of papers he was looking through, his attention now fully on Martin. “I had a pug when I was a child but that was it.”</p><p>Martin adjusted his glasses, deciding on his words. “It's just… Alfie – well she looks sad.”</p><p>“Your dog that rummaged through the archives, looks sad?” Tim folded his arms into the warmth of his jacket, Jon always kept the office cold. He claimed it increased productivity.</p><p>“She wasn't rummaging, she was exploring; she likes to do that.” Martin was beginning to get animated with his hand gestures, the way he did when he was defending something. That something was usually Jon, but Alfie was a close second. “I just wanted to know if you had any suggestions.”</p><p>He did this a lot, Tim had noticed, finding one topic that he could then branch into another. Martin liked talking to people. Well not people, his friends – the three of them. If Alfie was his reason to talk to Tim right now, who was he to shorten it?</p><p>“What kind of sad?”</p><p>Martin made a tsking noise, “I don't know? She always sits on the couch with this little sad frump and stares up at me with those adorable brown little eyes. How many types of sad are there?”</p><p>Tim put a hand under his chin, pretending to think. God, he needed to shave. “Let’s see.... There’s sad like you just dropped an entire bowl of pasta on the kitchen floor. And then there’s sad like you just watched Marly and Me, which I would assume would hit a dog harder than a person.”</p><p>“She’s sad like ‘oh you never make time for me’ sad.” Martin took his glasses off, cleaning the lenses with the bottom of his sweater. “I <em>do</em> make time for her, it’s just not the time that she wants.”</p><p>“Women am I right?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t – ugh.” Glasses returned with a sigh.</p><p>Tim smiled across to his friend. “I think you should bring her to the office more often. Get her out of the house, stretch those paws.”</p><p>“Oh, you just want her to cause a ruckus and rile Jon up again.” Martin returned the grin, though his version had a bit of accusation mingled in.</p><p>“Me? Wanting slight mayhem in the archive? Never…okay sometimes.” Tim leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head with a stretch of his own. “Nothing exciting ever happens here beyond what’s written.”</p><p>Martin shrugged beginning to gather his belongings, “Is that such a bad thing?”</p><p>“I suppose not.” Tim followed suit, not that he had much to pack up due to being rushed that morning. They both walked towards the front door now, “Spend more time with her, mate. When you go on walks go a different route, talk to her about your day. Really woo her.”</p><p>“Maybe I should let him know we’re done for the day?” Martin looked over his shoulder to Jon’s office, ignoring Tim, “I know we usually walk together before I catch the tube but…” he trailed off, eyes not leaving the closed door.</p><p>Tim smirked with a short, aired laugh, “Of course, I don’t mind walking alone now and again.”</p><p>“Right – okay,” Martin set his bag back down on his desk, “I’ll see you tomorrow? At nine.”</p><p>“At nine.” Tim nodded, heading for the exit as Martin headed for Jon.</p><p>The rain that had been coming and going throughout the day had stopped for now. He passed the coffee shop and the florist that was next to it. While the coffee shop was open for a few more hours, the other business was closing. Tim looked through the window at a large fern before carrying on his way, avoiding puddles this time.</p><p>Tim wasn't sure what he was expecting when he got back to his flat, but his new neighbour still taking boxes up four flights of stairs was not on the list. It didn't look like she had that much stuff that morning, so why was this process taking so long?</p><p>There were five more boxes left in front of the door of the building at this point. They weren't big, but they weren't small either. Just the right size to be annoying.</p><p>It wasn't until Tim got to the second floor that he saw her nearly dropping a box in front of him. If he weren’t there to catch it, the contents of said box would have tumbled down the stairs below them. Judging from the frazzled look of Alison, that had happened several times since the workday started.</p><p>“Oh shit, I'm sorry,” Alison began until she realised it was him, “Thanks.” The curtness from that morning returned her voice, had the accent thing upset her that much? Should he apologise?</p><p>He didn't let go of the box fully, the tape on the bottom was failing and whatever was inside could fall out at any moment. Alison had most of the weight of the cardboard on her left arm and seemed to be avoiding strain on her right all together.</p><p>“I can't get to my flat until you're out of the way, so why don't I just carry this up there for you?” He wasn't really asking, in fact Tim was already taking the box from her and walking up the stairs before he finished the sentence.</p><p>“Really, it's okay I can do it.” Alison trailed after him, a foot catching on a step in her hurry.</p><p>“You’ve been doing this for about eight hours now and you're still not done?”</p><p>“And you're still an asshole?”</p><p>He sucked in a breath – pretending like her words hurt, “Ooh, ouch.”</p><p>“My shoulder just hurts a little but when it rains.” She explained, “It doesn’t stop me from carrying a box though.”</p><p>“No, but it apparently makes you slower. Like a little sloth, or a turtle.”</p><p>She shot a knife of a glare up to him, her hair – now in a ponytail, swaying back and forth with each step. “And you’re a gnat or a really tall-” Alison held her hand out with a twirl of motion, searching for the right animal, “Rat. Not that I have anything against rats, I’ve met quite a few nice ones.”</p><p>He shifted the box, causing whatever was inside to clink around. It sounded like dishes. “I know this grey one, best chef in Paris.”</p><p>“Don’t patronise me, Jim.”</p><p>“Tim.”</p><p>“What?” She sucked in a breath, the way he had done but without the theatrics, “Damnit, I’m sorry. Here you are helping me and don’t even get your name right.” They reached the hallway of their floor. The plant that she had propping open the door that morning was replaced with a box, similar to the one he was holding, though one of the bottom corners was dented in – as if it had been dropped and it didn’t leave much room for a large box and a man to weasel in through.</p><p>“Can you get the door?” The words were out before he could change them, “If it's alright for me to come in?”</p><p>“Uh yeah, it’s cool. It’s a little bit of a mess though.” She moved in front of him, scooting the box out of the way with her foot, allowing him access.</p><p>“S’alright. Most flats look a little hectic on moving day.”</p><p>The flat had the exact same layout as Tim’s, except mirrored. It opened up into the living room and the kitchen on one side of the hallway and the other was what he assumed would be the bathroom and bedroom. From the looks of it, her bedroom wall was against his own.</p><p>“That can go here.” She gestured to a spot in the centre of the living room, next to a half-unpacked box of blankets and the plant that he saw that morning. He set the box down next to it.</p><p>“What’s this wee guy?” Tim bent over the plant, inspecting it, hands going to the pockets of his jacket. She had her door to their balcony open, and it brought the fall chill inside.</p><p>“He’s a golden pothos.” She was at his side now, “Though one of the sections is starting to wilt, the move stressed him out.”</p><p>“Plants can get stressed?”</p><p>“Mhm.” Alison reached a hand out, holding one of the leaves gently. The green was the same size as her hand. Her thumb brushed over the top of it.</p><p>The dark nail polish she had was almost completely gone now, and the nail itself was bitten down as far as she could manage it. “They’re a lot like people.” She let the leaf go and looked at a twisting bonsai tree on her coffee table. “I was really worried about this one.”</p><p>Tim stood up to his full height and looked around her living room. Boxes mostly, a couch that had seen better days left over from the previous tenant. Close to a dozen plants were scattered about. A few canvases that had been painted over with white, leaned against one wall next to a well-used easel. “You a painter?”</p><p>Alison nodded, a smile brightening her face. “I usually do bigger things than theses,” she motioned to the canvases, “I’m a scenic artist. I paint stuff for film and stage. Events sometimes.”</p><p>“That sounds fun.” Tim moved to one of the paintings that had the thinnest layer of white over it. He could just hardly make out the outline of trees. “Why paint over them and not get new ones?”</p><p>“It's expensive, I have nowhere to put ‘em. It's easier just to prime over them and start something new.” As she spoke, Alison pulled a pocketknife from her back pocket, opening the box he had been carrying with one fluid motion.</p><p>“Don’t you feel bad for covering them up?”</p><p>“Not really. I mean, I take pictures of them, so they’re not <em>gone</em> gone.” Satisfied the plates and cookware inside the box was safe, Alison turned her attention to Tim, “Thank you for the help.” He nodded looking at the way she held her arm close to her side, “Do you want help with the last of them?”</p><p>“You just got off work, I don’t want to be a bother.”</p><p>“If you were a bother, I wouldn’t be offering.” Tim was already on his way down to the stairwell, “Not like I did anything to break a sweat all day, this gets my steps in. You just get the doors for me.”</p><p>She followed him down to the ground floor, their steps filling the silence between them till they reached the final door. “What is it that you do?”</p><p>“I’m a research assistant at the Magnus Institute. It sounds fancier than it actually is.”</p><p>“That’s what I say to people back in California about graduating from The Royal Conservatoire. Everything sounds more fancy here.”</p><p>Tim picked a box up and they headed back inside, “How long have you been in the country for?” He shifted the box in his arms, finding a good grip. This one was heavier than the last, Alison noticed his struggle, but he stopped her from helping.</p><p>“Sorry, I think there’s books in that one.” She opened the front door, “I’ve been in the UK for a little over three years now.”</p><p>“Why move to London instead of going back home?”</p><p>She looked at him now, head tilted to the side as she opened another door for him. A visible ripple of sadness went through her before she could push it down. “Home’s wherever my bed is, and right now,” she gestured to the floor above them, “my bed’s up there.”</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>“A research assistant, that sounds fun though.”</p><p>“It's mostly desk and busywork… bothering people.”</p><p>The two of them made the trip four more times up the stairs. He set the box down, she opened it to make sure whatever was inside wasn't damaged. Then they went back downstairs to get another, making idle chit chat as they did so.</p><p>It wasn't until the last box was inside her living room that Tim saw the point of their morning’s conversation.</p><p>On the corner of the balcony, was a pot with several green vines coming out of it. Alison had taken the vines and twisted them around the wrought iron of the railings. It hardly covered half of her side but if she was so worried about it getting on his half it must grow awfully fast.</p><p>She noticed his staring, “That's the little lady I was talking about this morning.”</p><p>“Doesn't look like she going to encroach on the entirety of the balcony.” His hands were back in the pockets as he leaned in the door away leading to the outside.</p><p>“Ah, that's how she gets you.” Alison bent over the last box, opening it, her voice growing sad for a moment. “I had to cut most of it down when I moved, but with enough sunlight and care she can take over the entire fence in a month.”</p><p>“Well good thing I never actually put anything out here.”</p><p>She smiled up at him, content with the state of what was ever inside the box, “I figured as much. I was thinking about getting a little patio table or something. You know, for like incentive to sit out there. I’ve never had a balcony before.”</p><p>He chuckled lightly, “Just be sure it doesn't fall through the rotting floor. I swear the whole building is falling apart. There’s supposed to be a barrier between yours and my side, you know that right? One day it just fell.” He made a starburst motion with his hand, “Not that the old man who used to live here cared.”</p><p>Alison moved passed him and stepped onto the wood planks of the balcony, jumping up and down like a rabbit to test it. “Seems sturdy to me.”</p><p>“Well, yeah. You’re not a six foot man.” He joined her, waddling from side to side. “It could give at any moment.” In the year and a half Tim had been living in the building, he could count on one hand how many times he had actually come out onto the balcony, not like he smoked or anything. He wasn’t even sure his outdoor light worked.</p><p>“Please don’t fall through the floor.”</p><p>“I won’t if you won’t.”</p><p>She grinned up at him, “Deal.”</p><p>“I should let you unpack and what not.” He looked back into her flat, not envying the process of finding a home for everything. It looked like a desk and a shelf needed assembling too.</p><p>“I’m gonna put on a podcast and reach my zen state of sorting and drink some wine. It’ll be great.” She patted the top of the plant next to her, “I’ll walk you out.”</p><p>Tim held up a hand to stop her, “No need.” He gestured to his own balcony door, “It’s unlocked.”</p><p>Her head tilted in the way it did earlier, “You don’t lock your door?”</p><p>“The locks broke,” he shrugged, reaching his door, “If anything goes missing, I’ll know it was you.”</p><p>Alison put her hands on her hips, “I’m not a thief.”</p><p>“You can never tell with Americans.” Tim wiggled his fingers at her, “You’re crafty buggers.”</p><p>“Crafty isn’t the word I would use,” she mumbled and moved to her own door, “Thanks again for all the help, Tim.” She seemed marginally less stressed than she was an hour ago, her jaw wasn’t as tense, and she was less aware of whatever injury had befallen her shoulder.</p><p>“My pleasure, Alison.”</p><p>With that, he closed his door and looked towards his kitchen and the arduous task of finding something to eat. Maybe he should just order takeout.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Gloxinia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ding ding, here's the rewrite of chapter two!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Erica Jong </em>
  <em>- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>An omelette. Easy to make, hard to mess up. The perfect dinner for a man who was very, very bad at cooking.</p><p>Okay, it wasn't that Tim was necessarily <em>bad</em> at cooking – he just wasn't good at following instructions in the way of cooking. Not that many instructions with an omelette though. Just some eggs and some cheese. Spinach if he was feeling spicy.</p><p>What was it that his mum always said? Something about him being pig-headed. She would always say it with a smile and a shake of the head, endearingly. Her now greying blond, tightly coiled curls would sway with the motion.</p><p>Tim had the curls of his mother’s hair, the colour of it – his dad’s. He spent a good half-hour each morning to get the winding nots into slight waves. Mum always told him he had both their eyes, her blue and his dad’s brown, because god couldn’t decide on which to give him. Not that Tim believed in a god, much to his parents’ constant chagrin. Being the not straight son of a catholic preacher had that effect on some folks.</p><p>He sighed with a chill from his sliding glass door, the seal around it wasn't the strongest. Weather it had cracked and degrade it to almost nothing. So, if there was any relatively strong breeze, the door would often jar itself open as it had now.</p><p>Tim heard the soft click of it opening from his place in the kitchen but didn't take his eyes from the beginnings of his dinner. It was never really a problem unless it was raining. The weather had spared him for now.</p><p>Over the sizzle of the egg in front of him, Tim heard music. His body’s first instinct was to tighten, residual fear that always refused to leave him. It wasn’t a pipe organ, or anything of the sort. He willed his shoulders to lower.</p><p>Alison has mentioned that she was going to a podcast or something, but he didn't think he'd be able to hear it. He guessed her balcony door was open like his was now.</p><p>This didn't sound like a podcast; no this was definitely a song. It was slow at first, clearly a guitar and soft humming. He set the spatula down and moved towards the door, pushing it open with his foot and leaned against the frame.</p><p>Tim could have sworn he had heard this song before, but he couldn't place it.</p><p>Was Alison singing? She had to be singing. There was two voices, but she almost matched the other woman’s pitch perfectly. Though her voice had a rasp in it, Tim couldn’t tell where the singer’s voice ended and his neighbour’s began. For once, the blend of people didn’t bother him. He closed his eyes like a cat in the sun.</p><p>“<em>None of this will make sense, I can hide through words all I please</em>.” Alison’s voice was louder than the other woman’s. Hers had a crack to it, like a deep residual pain had somehow seeped into it. “<em>But even when I'm six feet underground, you still got me on my knees</em>.” There was a clatter, it sounded like an empty package being discarded. “<em>Dreams cannot compare, to seein’ you standing there in front of me. It's crazy how much I found, I’d love for you to stick around. And to stay with me</em>.”</p><p>Oh… he did remember the words; he had this vinyl somewhere on his shelf. Tim found himself singing with her. His voice hardly above a whisper. “<em>And none of this will make sense. I can hide through words all I please, but even when I'm six feet underground, you still got me on my knees. Yeah, you still got me on my knees.”</em></p><p>Tim kept his eyes closed as he heard her giggle. Sort of how she had that morning with what’s-his-name, but it was so more genuine when she thought she was alone. The laugh had a grieved rasp laced in it. It was just a short little sound, but it felt like so much was said in it.</p><p>He could see it in Alison’s eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. Two hours ago, he assumed it was because she was tired from the move. But now it dawned on him what that kind of tired was.</p><p>Alison was still singing, something sad. Something sweet. A song full of pain that the original artist didn’t intend.</p><p>When he was younger, Tim had trouble realizing that some people weren’t made for deep conversations, or for holding him together when he felt as if he was mere moments from falling apart. Some people were horrible at keeping other’s from unzipping their skin, or for talking someone out of a would-be horrible mistake. Most people, he had found, didn’t have the desire to love him through the worst moments of his life.</p><p>And that was okay.</p><p>It didn’t make others horrible people because they simply didn’t want to handle the storm that loss could rile up inside someone.</p><p>And it didn’t make Tim a horrible person because he didn’t divulge all the gritty details of his horror show to every romantic partner or friend he had.</p><p>As Tim grew older, he learned to accept that most people that couldn’t give him what he needed. Not that he really knew what he wanted in the first place.</p><p>This fact was extrapolated when he lost Danny. People – his old friends, didn’t want to talk about it. Trauma happened. Trauma over. <em>Shame about Danny Tim. Better get a move on though. The world won’t stop just because you want it to. </em>That’s what all of their faces said little more than a week after the bodyless funeral. His friends wanted all forms of tragedy pushed away from them. Like it was a story they read once and were now done with.</p><p>It didn’t mean they weren’t worth keeping in his life, though most of them moved away from him. Leaving room for anger to flourish.</p><p>Tim just needed to figure out which friends were like that and who wasn’t before he was disappointed. He always kept them at arm’s length never expecting everyone in his life to understand, to be non-judgmental, <em>to get it. </em>What even was there to get? To understand? The truth of what happened stayed with him. Tim knew his mother would fall apart if she knew what he did. If she could even understand.</p><p>But that was okay, because not everyone was made to impart wisdom, or wax-poetics, or speak on politics and the depravity of society, or discuss how crucial it is that the stigma of mental illness be abolished. He kept the horror inside himself, lest someone coin him as insane.</p><p>There were times when he needed to get away from all that heaviness. There was no choice. So, he’d listen to Sasha’s superficial conversation about Kim Kardashian’s arse, or play along with Martin and Jon’s debate on the colour of a dress that was a big deal years ago. It was blue and black as far as he was concerned.</p><p>What had his mother told him? That he would need those kinds of conversations. <em>So, don’t go round cutting people off and dropping your friends. You need people for all your seasons. </em></p><p>Tim took a deep breath and opened his eyes slowly before widening them completely. He smelt burning as he turned around to his kitchen, revealing a trail of smoke coming up from his pan. From what was once supposed to be a delicious omelette. He took his pan from the stovetop, waving his hand over the smoke.</p><p>Maybe take away wasn’t such a bad idea.</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Alison didn't get as much done as she wanted – perusal.</p><p>She started off well enough in her endeavor to get settled, but the steam left her within an hour. The episode of What the Ghosts she decided to listen to wasn't all that interesting. She couldn't find a song or playlist that sparked interest either.</p><p>There wasn’t really have a whole lot in the boxes to begin with. The newspaper and magazine pages that were used for packing took up the most space, giving the illusion that she had more than what was there.</p><p>She resolved to finish at least most of one room – the kitchen maybe.</p><p>It took less than an hour to unpack all her cookware and dishes, another reminder that there wasn’t much. Alison had no reason to have more than two plates and two bowls. Only had one coffee mug sat on the shelf. The handle cracked at the joint to the point where she could no longer hold it when liquid was inside out of fear that it would snap off. The mug sat next to a stemless wine glass. The last of a set of four. Each had a different flower painted on them. Unfortunately, since coming into her care – Alison had broken all but one.</p><p>From the arm of her couch where she had perched herself, the glass stared at her on the counter. <em>You’ll drop me too, or maybe knock me off the coffee table while you dance around the room.</em></p><p>She shook her head in an effort to toss the thought away, tendrils of her hair falling down. With a sigh, Alison hooked a finger under the hair tie, pulled it through the nots, then flung it into one of the boxes. Black waves now free to tangle as it saw fit.</p><p>Alison looked around at the work she still had to do. A bitter twinge of embarrassment went through her at the realization she had let someone in the apartment when it was in such a state.</p><p>Tim seemed nice enough – granted he probably only offered to help so she wouldn’t keep him up all night with the sound of dropping boxes in the hallway.</p><p>She had seen people with heterochromia before, but there is something about the contrast of one blue eye against the olive skin that surrounded it. Alison had gotten so conscious about it that morning – surely every person he met stared at him because of it.</p><p>So, she had kept her gaze mostly to his door frame. Or was that rude? Should she have made eye contact with him? Should she look at his brown eye or his blue eye or both? Did it really matter?</p><p>A stinging came from her thumb, drawing her head down towards it. A terrible habit she had, attacking her hands when she got the slightest bit stressed. They were the outlet of her anxiety; it didn’t matter if she was tearing them or biting. In the last few years, the habit had died down, but the stress of the move and – a few other things, brought it back in full force.</p><p>She held her hand out in front of her now, looking at the short, jagged stumps that were once nails. They were red around the edges where the skin had been recently agitated. There was a box of fake acrylics somewhere that could be glued on to shield the remains of her nails from scrutiny.</p><p>They weren't long claws or anything fancy. Just short and squared off, a deep plum color. Without being told that they were fake, someone would probably think they were just really well taken care of. Something she had always envied. Work as a scenic painter didn't allow room for beautiful hands. Not like a fine artist, she supposed. Someone who’d worry about charcoal under the cuticles, not chunks of paint or texture for a set piece.</p><p>If this contact from a colleague from university pulled through, hopefully she could still say that was her job. Alison closed her hand into a fist, the pads of her fingertip’s pressing into her palms.</p><p>The edges of her nails were a reminder of things she didn’t like to think about. How fragile Alison had become. All the lessons sadness and anxiety carved into her. To not do what she knew – on a gut level, to be the wrong thing but something she wanted to do regardless. To choose between staying and going when she knew that going would be the easier option and that staying would be the cathartic one.</p><p>Lessons to fight that countless therapists tried to grain into her. When Alison should hold steady or when she should fight. Not to focus on some short-term joy that would never stay instead of the long-term heartsickness of being alone, surrounded by people that heard her but never really listened the second she mentioned anything they would consider too sad.</p><p>She always had a problem with surrendering all her joy for an idea that she used to have about herself that wasn’t true anymore. The desire to seek joy at all costs pulled at her sometimes, never matched by her friends. They didn’t understand the mania loss had planted in her, none of her companions understood that urge to find – <em>something.</em></p><p>It was hard to know what to do when she had a conflicting set of emotions, but it wasn’t really as hard as she pretended it was. She knew that.</p><p>Saying it was hard was ultimately nothing more than a justification to do whatever seems like the easiest thing. She knew she should’ve told one of her friend his boyfriend was cheating on him, that she should keep eating the horrible tasting bread because it was cheaper, end a friendship over the smallest of arguments, keep loving someone who treated her terribly, talk about her ‘tragic backstory’ with people who just wanted to talk about the weather.</p><p>There wasn’t a single dumb thing she’d done since the event that launched her into her adult life that Alison didn’t know was a dumb thing to do while she was doing it.</p><p>Even when she justified it to herself – as she did every time, the truest part of Alison Hart knew she was doing the wrong thing. Always.</p><p>As the years pass, she was learning how to not do the wrong thing, but every so often she got a harsh reminder that she still had work to do. Attacking her nails was the most prominent them.</p><p>Alison moved to her feet with sudden determination. She begin rifling through the box bound for her bathroom, until the small package she was searching for was found.</p><p>A new song started from her laptop, one that her mind didn’t immediately reject. The draft from the open glass door had died down since she had stubbornly left it open.</p><p>Moving back to the couch, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as she feared. She popped the nails out of the casing and began to sing along to the music. A song Alison hadn’t heard for a long time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Stinging Nettle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“‘Why did you do all this for me?’ he asked.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘You have been my friend,’ replied Charlotte.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘That in itself is a tremendous thing.’”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web -</em>
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</p><p>“…So, this was the point where we knew things were getting real. Unless Tan was playing the joke. But the guys around us were trying to stay calm. We sat around the fireplace and talked until like eleven maybe? To this day every time I think about it, I really hope it was just some huge prank my cousins were playing on me and just never decided to tell me so I would go crazy for the rest of my life. It was a little past midnight and the stink of copper that had been in the woods since we got to the cabins turned into it smelt like blood, like cooking blood and singed hair. Tan and my other cousin, Reese got up like they were going to fight whatever it was out there. But suddenly there was this sound. It wasn't quite a knock. More like a – clawing at the door. There was this… voice. It sounded like when you see those videos of cats and dogs whose owners teach them how to talk? It was this halting, bizarrely toned voice saying: ‘<em>Let me in, won't you please let me in?</em>’ It was <em>so</em> obvious that it wasn't a person talking. It didn't have the right tempo. That's something that I never realised until that moment, all people have a certain cadence when they talk. No matter the language, all people have a certain kind of rhythm in their words. That echo just kept saying ‘<em>in</em>’. Over and over again-”</p><p>“Wait, hold on. What if it was just an irritated owl or something?”</p><p>Jon sighed, setting down the papers in his hands before turning off the recorder with a harsh <em>clack</em>, “Tim. We agreed that if you were going to sit in on this, you weren't going to talk.”</p><p>“But you don't believe that do you? They probably just got scared by the local wildlife.” he gestured to the recorder, “Not that I’m discrediting the statement or anything.”</p><p>“Humph,” Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, shifting his glasses up in the process, “you would never.”</p><p>It wasn’t that Tim didn’t believe every statement that found its way into the mess of the archive. Some of them were just a little more outlandish than believable. Not that he was one to talk on that account.</p><p>He folded his arms against his chest as he leaned back in his chair, looking up at the yellow-tinged lamp hanging from the centre of Jon’s office. The clutter of file boxes and stacks of statements notwithstanding, the whole shebang screamed Jonathan Stuffy Sims. Everything had a place and in that place it stayed.</p><p>Jon wasn’t a clean freak. Far from it. Filing cabinets against one wall, a bookshelf against the other, a desk in the centre of it all. The most remarkable thing on Jon’s desk aside from the rotating array of coffee mugs Martin would bring in and an imposing stack of papers, was a stapler. The least he could do was find a small potted plant on his desk, a candy dish if he were really feeling it.</p><p>Tim, to his credit, was never really good at keeping plants alive. Maybe he could ask the new neighbour for advice? She had to have some super plant secret. What with taking care of all the ones she had scattered around her flat.</p><p>He wondered if she brought up each of those pots by herself, one by one. Was that why it took her so long to get everything upstairs, on top of whatever had happened to her shoulder?</p><p>She had opened each box when he brought them upstairs and checked over the contents of them. Certainly, the same care had been amplified for the plants. The way she held that leaf in her hand – what was it? A golden pot-something? Whatever it was, she held it in her palm with such care, like it was a butterfly’s wing and the gossamer of it could rub off on to her skin if she weren’t careful.</p><p>Tim couldn’t think of the last time he was held like that, with such care. Alison-</p><p>“Tim?”</p><p>He leaned forwards, hitting the chair into the floor from its previous tilt. “Yeah, boss?”</p><p>“Were you listening to me?”</p><p>“Of course, I’m always listening.” Tim lied, picking up the tea Martin brought in half an hour ago, examining the now cold liquid. Martin’s intention was just to bring a cup for Jon, but he wiggled a cup for himself as well. Not that his friend seemed to mind.</p><p>Jon was staring at him, eyes squinting. The look he had when he was about to ask a question. He was like that when the two of them were still in research. Always asking questions and then questions to the questions. He opened his mouth to speak but Tim cut him off.</p><p>“So, you going out drinking with us tonight or what?”</p><p>“What? No, Tim I have a lot of work to do." He looked around the hard wood of his desk. Papers everywhere. Statements that needed… stating.</p><p>“Ah, come on mate.” Tim set the tea down in its previous place, “It’ll be fun. You can take one break,” he hitched a thumb to the door behind him, “don’t make me sic Martin on you.”</p><p>“God forbid.” Jon sighed again, finishing his mental stock of the work that needed being done. “Right, okay. Who’s all going?”</p><p>“Martin, Sasha, yours truly,” Tim gestured to himself with a twirl of the wrist, ending the flourish with a point at Jon, “and you, of course. The whole office for office drinks.”</p><p>His friend glanced at the papers again, before looking at the window. “Fine.” Jon relented, “Fine. I’ll go to a bar with Sasha, you, and,” he sighed, “<em>Martin</em>.”</p><p>Tim threw his hands up in victory, “Perfect,” he moved to stand, “then I’ll be going.”</p><p>Jon looked across to him, confusion stitched into his expression before shifting to understanding. “You only came in here to ask me to drinks.”</p><p>He winked in response, “I also wanted to spend time with you.”</p><p>Jon scoffed, “Evidently.”</p><p>Tim moved towards the door of the office, resting his hand on the handle. Not quite turning it as he looked over his shoulder, “Really though, thanks for coming out with us.”</p><p>Jon nodded; his attention was already returning to the statement. “The usual bar?”</p><p>“Mhm,” with a tug of a smile Tim opened the door, “meeting at eight.”</p><p>He heard Jon repeat the time as the door clicked closed behind him. Martin looked up from his desk the moment Tim stepped into the room. The curls of his head bouncing with the movement.</p><p>“So?”</p><p>Tim’s smile widened. These two were hopeless and they didn’t even know it. “I have no clue how long he’ll stay for, but he’s meeting us at eight.”</p><p>Martin beamed at him, “Fantastic! I’m glad<em> he</em>– we all get to spend time together.”</p><p>He walked over to his own desk, mirrored against Martin’s.</p><p>Martin’s desk was the opposite of Jon’s. Multicoloured sticky notes shaped like apples were peppered about with shorthand that only he could understand. He had two photos, the newest addition, smaller than the first. That was a picture of Alfie, a drooling, sloppy smile on her face. She was snuggled in, what Tim assumed, was one of Martin’s throw blankets on his couch. The sunlight made her brown fur look almost gold.</p><p>The other picture was him with a woman Tim only knew as Martin’s mother. She looked nothing like him, none of the warm Martin radiated was in her expression that was pulled in a taut line. The brightest thing in the photo was the small golden cross on a chain around her neck. She wasn’t even attempting to smile like Martin was in it. The two of them weren’t touching either, just standing side by side stiffly. It made Tim’s heart hurt.</p><p>Having someone abusive in Martin's life – regardless if it was emotional or physical abuse… especially when he was young, Tim knew how difficult that was.</p><p>From Tim’s perspective, it made Martin want to grow up to be kind. To generate good things. To be a source of peace and of wellbeing for others. But there were times when Tim saw the other part of Martin.</p><p>Just glimpses and shards, but he saw the quick shrewdness, sharp and spiteful. The part that he gentle friend tried to hide but crept its way in in hard situations. Like when he found out about his cv. A struggle between a hateful gut reaction and the wish not to add any more misery to the world.</p><p>Tim knew how hard that balance was, that the people who really <em>really</em> knew him – which weren’t many, they saw his own anger flash in his eyes before he could quiet it. If he quieted it in the first place. Tim wanted to overcome years of conditioning from his father with the gentle, constant force his mum showed. He was sure he'd mellow it just like Martin had.</p><p>It just took time, maybe it took Martin less than it would him – but he’d get there.</p><p>He looked at his own desk now and the picture he had there. It was his last year of high school, seven years ago now. His mates and him sitting on a dock. The lot of them intertwined with smiles. The photo itself was bleaching with the sun from the various desks he’d stuck it on. But the faces were all still visible, faces he knew even though the people behind them had all drifted apart.</p><p>“How goes your lady troubles?” Tim asked, the stillness of the room only disturbed by the sound of keystrokes. It was all suddenly too much for him.</p><p>“Lady troubles?” Sasha swivelled around in her chair, the thin pillow she used on top of it sliding with the movement. If the texture of the chair itched her legs through her tights so much, why didn't she just get a new chair instead of rifling through pillows for the perfect one?</p><p>“Alfie.” Martin shot a look at Tim over his monitor, “He's talking about Alfie and she's fine. I took her on a different walk last night and she seems happier.”</p><p>Sasha made an aweing sound from her place across the room, “I miss the wee gal. What’s been going on?”</p><p>“Oh, um well-”</p><p>“She’s wallowing.” Tim cut in, the back of a pen finding its way to his mouth.</p><p>“She is not wallowing.” Martin tossed a hand in the air, though there was no real anger in the motion.</p><p>“Hm, I wonder where she could possibly get that from.” Sasha continued to twirl in her chair side to side slowly, the way she did when she had something mischievous planned. The smile of a younger sibling about to poke at their older ones, a look that Tim knew well. “What about you, though?” Oh no, that look was directed towards him now, “How did your date go with what's-his-face last week?”</p><p>“He was fine. We went to lunch, but we didn't talk about anything. It was ‘so how's the weather’ ‘did you see the football game last night?’ Nothing interesting. Cute face but more boring than a Ritz.”</p><p>“I like Ritz.”</p><p>Tim and Sasha looked at each other, smiling. “We know Martin.” They spoke the words together.</p><p>“You gonna ask him on another one? A date I mean.” This woman was relentless.</p><p>“Nah, I don't think so. He's not as much my type as I thought he was.”</p><p>Sasha shrugged satisfied with his answer.</p><p>“Okay your turn. Anything happening in your love life, Miss James?</p><p>She glanced at the tower organizer for her pens, a better holder for them than the novelty mug he used, “You know I'm quite happy with my books. Thank you very much.”</p><p>“You’re too in love with antiques to even see another person.” Martin muttered, well aware that he was loud enough for the two of them to hear.</p><p>“Hey!” Sasha sat up, like she was about to jump from her chair and hit Martin on top of his head, but she made no real move to do so.</p><p>“Oh, what?” Martin teased, “Like I’m wrong?” There was laughter weaved into his words that reverbed into Sasha’s answer and even more in Martin’s rebuttal.</p><p>Tim pretended to work as he listened to the pair, a smile now taking the role of the pen. The two of them talked for the rest of the afternoon while he listened, throwing in his two cents now and again.</p><p>The last twenty minutes of the workday held the zenith of their conversation. Tim had been zoning out throughout it but clocked back in when Sasha and Martin were ping ponging back and forth in what seemed to be a heated debate that they were both on the same side of.</p><p>It was Sasha’s turn in the rally, “Exactly! Why do they call him Bigfoot?”</p><p>Martin snatched the words and threw his continuation back, “For starters he has two of them-”</p><p>“So, he'd be called Big Feet. And secondly-”</p><p>“And secondly the whole of his body is big.”</p><p>“All of his body, right! They should just call him Big.”</p><p>“What about Big Big?”</p><p>Sasha laughed, her chair waving with the movement, “Big Big?” Her knee hit the lower drawer of her desk, where Tim knew a bottle of liquor was tucked away with three shot glasses – though only two of them ever got used.</p><p>Late nights in the office had an entertaining effect over them, not much really got done to keep it simple.</p><p>Tim exhaled, saving a file on his computer with a final decisive click. “Is it home time yet?” His forehead thunked against the top of his desk, harder than was intended.</p><p>Martin winced in his place, “Actually yeah it is.”</p><p>“Weeee.” He tossed his hands in the air with a lazy motion, head not leaving the grain of the wood. “Time to go food shopping now.”</p><p>“And<em> more importantly</em>, time to get ready for office drinks.” Sasha chimed in. Tim couldn’t see her from the desk, but he could hear her ruffling her belongings into her bag and Martin doing the same.</p><p>Tim repeated himself, more enthusiastic this time as he joined them.</p><p>“I should let Jon know we’re heading out.” Martin looked to the door, the shape of Jon at his desk could be seen through the frosted glass embedded in the centre of the wood. Tim always thought the design in it was pretty. A sideways diamond with a circle in the middle where the glass shifted, it almost looked like an eye now that he really thought about it.</p><p>-</p><p>Alison always tried to memorize every detail of the moments she lived. Even now as she walked to the store on her quest for the wine, which she’d forgotten earlier. She kept the memory of the soreness in legs from standing at a long concert, though the band was now mingled into all the others she had seen.</p><p>The chill of nights when she walked home from a party at some friend’s friend’s house stayed tucked in her mind whenever it was winter, or a normal day in the UK. The patterns in the tablecloth or curtain in a tearoom someone took her to in her first year of university for – what was it? Her birthday?</p><p>Alison sighed, air puffing out in a small cloud as she walked. She wanted to memorize the feelings of every event she could. The quiet contentment, the laughter, the excitement. She kept trying to memorize people, but it was more often their smiles, the way they spoke, what made them laugh then the people themselves. It was funny, what trauma decided was of value to keep long after the source of it passed.</p><p>There was a constant feeling of being on the cusp of the next part of her life and it felt so… strange. But it made it so much easier to find happiness no matter what was happening to her – in a way. Since she was trying so hard to look through life with rose colored glasses of nostalgia, for memories she couldn't quite place and a time she couldn’t remember. Simply because she knew those were times that she'd never be able to live again. That the people who were around her, were people that she might not always have. She was always worried about missing things that she didn't really see when they were in front of her.</p><p> </p><p>But for now, she had to settle for the Tesco she was walking into. Alison wasn’t much a picky eater beyond anything spicey, so shopping wasn’t much of an issue.</p><p>The layout of nearly every one of the grocery stores in the chain was organized the same. Finding what she forgot on her first trip there several hours earlier wouldn’t be too difficult.</p><p> </p><p>The object of her search was a particular bottle of chianti, one that had proven more difficult to find as she scanned the rows of bottles in the isle. Chardonnay, merlot, white and red zinfandel, pinot grigio and pinot noir. It felt like every single wine a person could think of was in the rows in front of her. All but the one she wanted.</p><p>Alison sighed, looking up towards the fluorescents of the store. She was standing in the perfect place so that with the action of raising her head in defeat – she saw it. A single line of bottles, on the top shelf. With a purse of her lips, Alison moved to her tiptoes. The chianti still out of reach. She wasn’t a short woman, five foot six on a good day, but the vex of grocery store shelves wasn’t above gloating.</p><p>Honestly, the top shelf should be reserved for giants and the lesser wines – like riesling. She did a little hop, as if that would grant her victory, somehow get her closer to the bottle. It did, for a moment. But that moment wasn’t enough to get it in her hand. She looked up to the glass again, the green of it taunting her.</p><p>She wasn’t even a wine person. Alison doubted she’d even be able to tell the difference between types. Red wine was red wine. But her mind was set on one named after the second street she had ever lived on.</p><p>Asking someone with a height advantage was the best way to solve this problem. Or she could just jump again and avoid bothering a stranger who had better things to do that help an annoying, stubborn American. Oh god, was she a stereotype?</p><p>-</p><p>Tim was so focused on his phone screen that he didn't notice that he almost slammed to the glass door of the store, looking up right as it juddered open and let him step inside – unharmed. <br/><br/></p><p>Sasha had just sent him a message that one of her friends was going through another breakup with their on again off again partner and would be skipping on office drinks for the night to console them. Tim had half a mind to also patch it leave Martin and Jon alone just to see what would happen. But he wasn't that cruel, was he? Not that it would necessarily be harsh to leave shy little Martin alone with his one hundred percent not crush.</p><p> </p><p>He wouldn’t do that, not intentionally anyways. Nope, he was just going to buy the eggs he had run out of from last night’s dinner attempt, make a better omelet, mess around on his phone for over two hours, then change for the newly dubbed boys night.</p><p>Eggs in hand, Tim walked in the direction of the self-checkout, absentmindedly looking down the aisles as he passed them. When he got to the rows that house the store’s liquor, he paused. The soles of his shoes squeaking against the linoleum tile below him. With the tilt of the head he stared down the aisle, watching someone who looked an awful lot like Allison try to jump up and grab one of the bottles on the highest shelf. A hand swiped for the bottle and missed. Her shoulders slumped as she stared up at the wine, teeth finding her lip. If she kept this up, Alison was probably going to knock the entire rack over.</p><p>Tim shook his head softy and walked towards her before he could think better of it. She didn’t seem to notice he was beside her until he chucked while grabbing the neck of the bottle and handing it to her.</p><p>“Here you go, neighbour.” The bottle left his hand and transferred to hers. The tips of their fingers brushed for a sliver of a moment.</p><p>“Oh, uh hey.”</p><p>“Closest store to the flat.” Tim shrugged with his explanation, “Rough day?” He gestured to the alcohol she was clutching as if it was the most valuable thing in the world.</p><p>Alison shook her head, causing the knot of a bun her hair was in to loosen slightly. “I got done unpacking everything and forgot the celebratory wine earlier so,” she held the bottle up, “thank you for this.”</p><p>“Course.” They began walking towards the checkout as he had done so previously. He could see form the windows at the front that it was now almost completely dark outside, “Mind if I walk back with you?”</p><p>She smiled slightly, “Sure, we are heading the same way.”</p><p>Tim checked out before Alison did since one of the store workers asked to see her ID, so he decided to wait outside. Even though it was only the beginning of November the winter chill was already setting in. The wool of his coat contently scratching the nape of Tim neck as he bundled it closer around himself. He’d need to pull his scarfs out soon.</p><p>He looked through the glass as Alison headed for the door. Her source of warm was a hoodie with a red and brown flannel that looked several sizes too big nestled over the top. It looked like a men’s shirt; did she have a boyfriend? Was she talking them walking home together the wrong way?</p><p>It was just dark out now and he doubted she learned the area well on her second day there. Besides, they <em>were</em> going to the same place after all.</p><p>The doors slid open allowing her access to the fridge London air. Alison shrank into her layers just as he had, hands disappearing into her sleaves. Just the tips of her fingers peaked out, wrapping around the neck of her wine. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it getting dark this early.” She looked around what parts of the sky above them that could be seen between the roof of the buildings and streetlights.</p><p>“S’not so bad.” Tim held the carton of eggs closer to him as if they could provide a warmth that his peacoat couldn’t. He could feel the tip of his nose already turning red as Alison’s was. “Makes it nice and dramatic when you want to brood.”</p><p>“Oh yeah,” she hunched up her shoulders momentarily, pretending to sulk, “I’m totally the brooding type.”</p><p>Tim grinned at her from his place at her side, puffing out a laugh the cold froze the second it let his mouth. “I bet you mope around the flat reciting evil monologues to your plants all day long.”</p><p>She echoed his laugh in the same giggle she used for the guy in the moving van. “Sometimes, I even perform them while I’m painting, swishing a brush around like a sword.” Alison swayed side to side imitating the motion of a paintbrush.</p><p>They carried on joking like that the rest of the way towards their building. The heat from inside stinging at his exposed skin upon entry.</p><p>Alison was biting the chapped skin of her bottom lip as they ascended the stairs. It wasn’t until they reached their floor that she broke their newfound silence, her eyes on the bottle in her hands. “Hey Tim?”</p><p>“Hey Alison?”</p><p>“Do you wanna share this with me?” She held the bottle up with a slight shake, “We could sit on the balcony?”</p><p>He paused for a beat, evidently that was enough time for a worried look to pass over her.</p><p>“I mean, yeah I know it’s cold, but I owe you for helping me get everythin’ upstairs-”</p><p> “Sure,” he cut in, “I’ll bring my fuzziest of blankets if you do the same.”</p><p>“Deal.” The worry left her expression, “You gotta bring your own glass though I only have one.”</p><p>The pair both fished out their keys when they reached their respective doors, actions mirroring each other as they opened their own.</p><p>“I’ll tap on your sliding door when I get out there.” Tim made a knocking motion in the air in front of him.</p><p>“Sweet,” Alison stepped through her doorway, looking away from him. “I’ll be like ten minutes.”</p><p>“Ten minutes.” He repeated her words as both their doors closed.</p>
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